CHAPTER 36: CHAPTER 36 :SYSTEM,IS WESTBROOK STILL IN THE TITLE HUNT?

Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.

Iron Vault Arena.

The Roares’ home court smelled of fresh wax and sweat. Ryan took his first real steps onto the home hardwood—last time, he’d only been shuffled through the press room for his introductory conference.

Alone at the far basket, he drilled threes while Jamal filmed. Eddie’s idea, of course. Pre-approved. The footage would be chopped, polished, and uploaded to every one of Ryan’s social accounts by afternoon.

Ryan sank two threes in a row. The third clanked off the rim.

He paused, then walked toward Jamal.

"Cut that last one. Keep the two that went in."

Jamal nodded, tucking the phone away. "Thanks, man."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Jamal smiled, a little stunned. "You changed my life, bro. I swear. I never imagined I’d be filming here, on an Roares court. And last night, the Sky Lounge? Dude, that place was packed with celebrities—I even saw that one singer..."

"Hey! You done?" Crawford’s bark sliced through from midcourt. "Wrap it up and get the hell out!"

Jamal nearly pissed himself. "Y-yes, Coach!"

"Wait," Ryan said. "One more thing."

He walked to the baseline, grabbed his backpack, then sat cross-legged beneath the basket.

"Alright. Go ahead."

Jamal pulled his phone back out.

Ryan unzipped the bag and pulled out a bottle of Zero9, taking a long, unapologetic gulp.

He still had ten crates of it at home. Chloe had ordered her team to load them into Eddie’s car before they left the Crown Hotel last night.

Ryan wiped his mouth. "Eddie’ll know what caption to write."

Jamal was about to respond when Crawford’s voice thundered again. Time to vanish.

Ryan watched Jamal disappear through the arena doors, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Funny. He wasn’t the only one who’d changed Jamal’s life—Jamal had changed his too.

If Jamal hadn’t launched that ball at his head and dragged him into a one-on-one, none of this would’ve happened. Crawford never would’ve seen him play. No Roarers tryout. No contract. No second chance.

Sure, with his talent, someone would’ve noticed eventually. But that would’ve been a different story. A different script.

He liked this one better.

Sharing a place with Jamal and Kylie. A good team. A decent agent, Eddie. And Chloe... especially Chloe.

Seventeen days into this second life, and he’d already been handed a better script than his first go-round.

There hadn’t been much to miss. Orphaned, single, stuck in a dead-end office job. Just another invisible life in a city full of them.

Well—except for Westbrook. He never did get to see Russ win a ring.

He glanced at his phone. January 22nd. Day 17 in this world.

Strange how the timeline didn’t match. Back then, he’d died on May 6th, 2025—hit by a car right after Game 1 of the Western Semis, Nuggets vs. OKC.

But in this world, he’d landed on January 6th.

Why the shift? No clue. But hell, getting a second life in this world was already a miracle.

Seventeen days. Finals had to be starting soon.

"System," he muttered. "Who’s in the NBA Finals?"

The reply popped up instantly:

[Host lacks query privileges for original world events]

Ryan sighed. "Come on, we can’t even chat?"

[Considering host’s Westbrook ability... limited queries related to Westbrook are permitted]

He perked up. "Okay, then... is Westbrook still in the title hunt?"

[Negative. Nuggets lost 3–4 to OKC in the second round.]

A dull ache hit him square in the chest.

Before he could ask anything else—

"You planning to sit here all damn day?" Crawford’s clipboard connected with his shoulder blades. "Move your ass!"

——

8:30 PM - Home Locker Room.

Crawford’s clipboard tapped along the lockers. "This one. That one. Left two. Those four—all empty. Pick."

Ryan grabbed a stall at random. The room went quiet.

"What?" he asked.

Kamara cleared his throat. "That was... Marcus’s."

"Oh." Ryan stepped back. "I’ll take another."

Crawford tossed him a key.

He opened the locker. Empty. Clean. Quiet.

Ryan slung his backpack inside, but the zipper wasn’t shut. A bottle of Zero9 slipped out and rolled a few inches across the locker floor.

He didn’t bother picking it up. Just left it there next to the bag, door slamming shut on the silence.

8:55 PM.

The locker room buzzed with the sound of stretching bands and sneakers squeaking against tile. Ryan rolled his shoulders, the pre-game adrenaline starting to hum in his veins.

Crawford clapped his hands once. "Let’s move."

No one needed to be told twice. One by one, the Roares filtered out through the tunnel, the hum giving way to silence.

Kamara caught Ryan’s arm at the door. "If it’s close tonight," he muttered, "don’t dish to Lin in crunch time."

Ryan glanced down the tunnel where Lin had already disappeared. "Why?"

"Since he bricked that game-winner in the Eastern Conference Finals eight years ago?" Kamara’s voice dropped. "21.3% on clutch shots since. Seven fucking years."

Ryan didn’t even blink. Of course Kamara would know that. The guy had the ABA’s entire analytics archive stored between his ears.

They were the last to leave the tunnel. The second Ryan stepped into the arena, the roar hit him like a wave.

But this time, it wasn’t boos.

Kamara turned in a slow circle, scanning the stands. "Big crowd tonight."

In truth, the arena’s attendance was only around 60%—but for Iron Vault, that was considered a sellout compared to the last two seasons.

Ryan peeled off toward the far end of the court to take some warm-up shots. Just as he squared up for a free throw, movement caught his eye.

The team mascot—Jet, the black lion—was bounding across the floor, riling up the crowd with oversized gestures and pure chaos energy.

Then Ryan saw her.

Chloe Palmer.

Front row. Courtside VIP, just behind the scorer’s table—where celebrities and sponsors usually sat.

She was wearing his No. 0 jersey, her golden hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.

Seated next to her was an older man—late sixties, balding, dressed in a blue checkered button-down shirt. The jawline matched hers.

Steven Palmer.

Roares superfan. Iron City’s richest. And, apparently, Chloe’s father.

Chloe met his gaze across the hardwood. A nod. A smile. He returned both.

9:30 PM – Tipoff.

Roares’ starting five: Darius, Lin, Kamara, Gibson, Omar.

Across from them, the Boulders sent out their usual wrecking crew. Axton towered at center.

The ball went up. Axton won the jump ball against Omar—no surprise there. First possession, half-court set. Axton demanded the ball at the elbow, backing Omar down. But Omar wasn’t watching the ball. He was tracking Axton’s heels.

And there it was.

A slight lift of the heel.

The spin was coming.

Omar had seen this move a hundred times. Four nights of extra drills with Ryan had hardwired it into him. He shifted his weight a half-second early. Axton turned right into it—only to have Omar’s hand dart out, stripping the ball clean. Darius scooped it up and took it coast-to-coast.

2–0. Roares. Hell of a start.

Next possession, same setup. Axton at the elbow, same pivot. This time he kept the ball but got his shot swatted into the stands.

On the sideline, Crawford allowed himself a single, sharp nod. The kid had put in the work. Two stops against Axton was no fluke.

Maybe Axton was still thinking about those two early possessions Omar blew up. Whatever the reason, he just wasn’t the same after that. Offensively? Flat. Defensively? A step slow. Like something had slipped out of place, and he couldn’t get it back.

The Roares, meanwhile, were rolling.

Five different scorers in seven minutes. Even Gibson—their usually invisible power forward—had knocked down two of three for 4 quiet points.

Kamara led the charge with 10, including a pair of threes that barely ruffled the net.

"Kamara and Gibson are feeling it tonight," Ryan remarked to Sloan on the bench.

Sloan gave a nod. "Those two always play better at home."

That was it. No numbers. No breakdowns. Just a flat reply.

Ryan almost laughed. Talking to Kamara was better—Kamara would’ve given him clutch stats, shooting zones, maybe even a player comp from 2012.

When Darius drilled a step-back three to push the lead to 31-13, the Boulders burned a timeout.

3:17 left in the first.

Almost the exact same timeout mark as the last time they played in Boulder’s arena.

But this time, Roares had more points—and a bigger lead.

And that game had included Malik, who’d gone supernova that night.

As the starters walked back to the bench, Crawford clapped once. "Nice work, all of you."

Then he was back to business. "Darius, Gibson, Omar—rest up. Ryan, Sloan, Stanley—you’re in."

Ryan peeled off his warmups and headed to the sideline to get loose, then quietly summoned the system.

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 75.5%]

He kept his voice low, lips barely moving. "System, this is my first home game. Any bonus for that?"